Even as I am given the greatest gifts of all, my eyes stare greedily at that which I lack. When my needs are met, I no longer view the world in terms of satisfaction. Suddenly, my desires become a necessity and I toil and strive for them with a careless lust in search of self satisfaction. Not only are my efforts egotistical, but harmful as I becoming willing to justify my wants over the true needs of others. When I go starving, I need nutrients. Yet when my cup is full, I return for more in hopes that I'll secure provisions for tomorrow while others go without today.
I am motivated by fear, drawn to the loudest voices encouraging my paranoid dread. For me, compassion is a buzz word displayed as a trophy gathering dust on a mantle, brought out only to demonstrate status and garner acceptance. I care...watch as I click my way to support or donate an hour of my precious time to your cause while not bothering to understand your obstacles. I am self serving, self protecting, and afraid. I am the facade of a smile, cracking beneath a worn exterior which grows tired of its own falsehoods. I am all I've grown to detest but often fear the abyss of change too greatly to seek improvement. I am vulnerability incarnate as I truly examine my shortcomings and list them in a pitiful list of weaknesses.
Yet, amidst all this I am not without hope. I may stand tall and admit my weakness or cower in a shell of fear, citing the normalcy of these despicable characteristics. I may face the fact that perfection is my goal, not my requirement, and that an imperfect humility is worth more than a distorted perfection. I may bring myself in submission to One who restores the broken. I may repent, not out of fear of judgement or the pressures of my peers, but out of a desire to be something greater than the self reliant man I gravitate towards being. Only in my admission of my mistakes, the humble posture I must assume, may I bring myself closer to a better reality; one in which I have ears to hear and eyes to see beyond the needs and wants of my isolated existence.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Welcome Back
It seems I've gone far too long without finding the time to write, usually meaning I've been too busy living life. Marriage, new home, grocery shopping, dishes, meals, scheduling, planning, decisions. Leaving me breathless, these concepts have consumed me. I only remain grounded and stay afloat knowing that I'm not in this alone. It seems I've grown mentally feeble, like a house of cards with new levels constantly springing up upon an already exhausted and weak frame. Magnificent only in its great stature, it is the adding of these layers that both builds me up and weighs me down.
As though this work is an end in itself, I'm somehow missing the value of the labour put into making life what it is. Exhausted in knowing that I've got to arise tomorrow to an amazing job, head out afterward with an amazing wife to buy food, clean our clothes, and decide upon when and where we are able to visit with amazing friends, these complaints are 1st world problems at their finest. It's nice to think aloud, as it is only in finding words to express these consuming thoughts that I am made able to realize my foolishness.
As the caffeine from a late night visit (which wasn't all that late, truth be told) courses through my system, I'll continue on my journey. Lately, I've been very fleeting, excusing my lack of committment by citing the busy state of post-married life. I think this is a cop out I've overused. It's not THAT hectic. Maybe I'm not doing this right? I feel tired from a lack of exhaustion. Stressed from a lack of worries. Confused by the constant simplicity of life. The more I think on it, the better I feel about it all.
To write, for me, is to awake something deep within. Even in the ramblings of a jolted, contradictory, repetitive gent such as my present self, I find a calm emerge through this organization of ideas. The more I gather these pieces, the more they assemble and assist my mind, in a effort to do more than simply live life. This needn't make sense for it to be of great worth, I appreciate it nonetheless for its simple truth.
As though this work is an end in itself, I'm somehow missing the value of the labour put into making life what it is. Exhausted in knowing that I've got to arise tomorrow to an amazing job, head out afterward with an amazing wife to buy food, clean our clothes, and decide upon when and where we are able to visit with amazing friends, these complaints are 1st world problems at their finest. It's nice to think aloud, as it is only in finding words to express these consuming thoughts that I am made able to realize my foolishness.
As the caffeine from a late night visit (which wasn't all that late, truth be told) courses through my system, I'll continue on my journey. Lately, I've been very fleeting, excusing my lack of committment by citing the busy state of post-married life. I think this is a cop out I've overused. It's not THAT hectic. Maybe I'm not doing this right? I feel tired from a lack of exhaustion. Stressed from a lack of worries. Confused by the constant simplicity of life. The more I think on it, the better I feel about it all.
To write, for me, is to awake something deep within. Even in the ramblings of a jolted, contradictory, repetitive gent such as my present self, I find a calm emerge through this organization of ideas. The more I gather these pieces, the more they assemble and assist my mind, in a effort to do more than simply live life. This needn't make sense for it to be of great worth, I appreciate it nonetheless for its simple truth.
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